


Master and Servant

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the got_exchange on LiveJournal's comment fic meme.</p><p>Prompt:  Roose Bolton helps his King to shave. With a knife. Bonus if sexy times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master and Servant

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU that pops up in my Robb/Roose fics where Robb is King in the North and Roose his Hand and is more showverse than anything.

Robb had thought to master his Lord Hand by treating him as a servant of the body. After all, customarily such men were meant to be naught but unobtrusive pieces of furniture, silent statues who attended to their king’s basest needs and disappeared into the shadows when they outlasted their usefulness. But Lord Bolton did not seem offended; nor did he complain. He stood by Robb’s side, divesting him of his furs and leathers, taking the clumsily-forged iron crown from his sovereign’s head, and attending him in his toilet.

It was not complicated, this. Merely bringing a basin of hot water to His Grace, sharpening the knife with practiced fingers, and bringing it against Robb’s summer-kissed cheek with deliberate yet cautious motion. As Bolton did his duty, drawing the blade slowly down the planes of his face, Robb closed his eyes, allowing himself to drowse, almost permitting himself to relax. After all, the crown was off, and the crown was heavy. The door was barred, and his man was loyal. At least that is what he chose to believe.

And when Bolton’s fingers slipped, cutting a shallow gash in his throat, Robb did not blame his loyal servant. He merely sat and waited as the blood was daubed away with a bit of linen, and called for the mirror, admiring the neat work that Roose Bolton had wrought. Save the trickle of red at his pulse, it was flawless.

“Well done,” Robb said gruffly, noticing that the fabric had not checked the scarlet flow.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Bolton whispered, pressing his finger to the spot, pushing against Robb’s neck. “Let me atone.” A curious flush spread across the young king’s face, and he cursed himself for his weakness. When Bolton bared his teeth in a smile, he felt his cheeks burn, and when a hand slid inside of his breeches, he submitted, more willingly than he would have liked to admit.


End file.
